Authors: Elizabeth Peters

Tags: #Historical fiction, #Detective and mystery stories, #Mystery fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Historical, #Suspense, #Crime & mystery, #Political, #Women detectives - Egypt, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictious character), #Crime & Thriller, #Mummies, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictitious character), #Egyptology, #Cairo (Egypt), #Mystery, #Detective, #Women detectives, #Emerson, #Radcliffe (Fictitious character), #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Archaeologists' spouses, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Egypt, #Fiction - Mystery

Crocodile on the Sandbank

BOOK: Crocodile on the Sandbank

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CROCODILE
ON THE SANDBANK
ELIZABETH PETERS

To
my son Peter
The love of my beloved is on yonder side
A width of water is between us
And a crocodile waiteth on the sandbank.

—Ancient
Egyptian Love Poem

Author's
Note

Although my major characters are wholly fictitious, certain historic
personages make brief appearances in these pages. Maspero,
Brugsch and Grebaut were associated with the Egyptian Department of
Antiquities in the 1880's, and William Flinders Petrie was then
beginning his great career in Egyptology. Petrie was the first
professional archaeologist to excavate at Tell el Amama and I have
taken the liberty of attributing some of his discoveries—and his
"advanced" ideas about methodology—to my fictitious archaeologists. The
painted pavement found by Petrie was given the treatment I have
described by Petrie himself. Except for discrepancies of this nature I
have attempted to depict the Egypt of that era, and the state of
archaeological research in the late nineteenth century, as accurately
as possible, relying on contemporary travel books for details. In order
to add verisimilitude to the narrative, I have used the contemporary
spelling of names of places and pharaohs, as well as certain words like
"dahabeeyah." For example, the name of the heretic pharaoh was formerly
read as "Khuenaten." Modern scholars prefer the reading "Akhenaten."
Similarly, "Usertsen" is the modern "Senusert."

WHEN I first set eyes on Evelyn Barton-Forbes she was walking the
streets of Rome—(I am informed, by the self-appointed Critic who reads
over my shoulder as I write, that I have already committed an error. If
those seemingly simple English words do indeed imply that which I am
told they imply to the vulgar, I must in justice to Evelyn find other
phrasing.)
In justice to myself, however, I must insist that Evelyn was doing
precisely what I have said she was doing, but with no ulterior purpose
in mind. Indeed, the poor girl had no purpose and no means of carrying
it out if she had. Our meeting was fortuitous, but fortunate. I had, as
I have always had,
purpose enough for two.
I had left my hotel that morning in considerable irritation of spirits.
My plans had gone awry. I am not accustomed to having my plans go awry.
Sensing my mood, my small Italian guide trailed behind me in silence.
Piero was not silent when I first encountered him, in the lobby of the
hotel, where, in common with others of his kind, he awaited the arrival
of helpless foreign visitors in need of a translator and guide. I
selected him from amid the throng because his appearance was a trifle
less villainous than that of the others.
I was well aware of the propensity of these fellows to bully, cheat,
and otherwise take advantage of the victims who employ
them, but I had no intention of being victimized. It did not take me
long to make
this clear to Piero. My first act was to bargain
ruthlessly with the shopkeeper to whom Piero took me
to buy silk. The
final price was so low that Piero's commission was reduced to a
negligible sum. He expressed his chagrin to his compatriot in his
native tongue, and included in his tirade several personal comments on
my appearance and manner. I let him go on for some time and then
interrupted with a comment on
his
manners. I speak Italian, and
understand it, quite well. After that Piero and I got on admirably. I
had not employed him because I required an interpreter, but because I
wanted someone
to carry parcels and run errands.
My knowledge of languages, and the means which enabled me to travel
abroad, had been acquired from my late father, who was a scholar and
antiquarian. There was little else to do but study, in the small
country town where Papa preferred to live, and I have an aptitude for
languages, dead and alive. Papa preferred his languages dead. He was a
devoted student of the past, and emerged from it only occasionally,
when he would blink at me and express surprise at how I had grown since
he last noticed my existence. I found our life together quite
congenial; I am the youngest of six, and my brothers, being
considerably older, had left the nest some time before. My brothers
were successful merchants and professional men; one and all they
rejected Father's studies. I was left, then, to be the prop of my
father's declining years. As I have said, the life suited me. It
allowed me to develop my talents for scholarship. But let not the
Gentle Reader suppose that I was ill equipped for the practical
necessities of life. My father was disinclined toward practicalities.
It was left to me to bully the baker and badger the butcher, which I
did, if I may say so, quite effectively. After Mr, Hodgkins the
butcher, Piero gave me no trouble.
My father died, eventually— if one may use so precise a word for the
process that took place. One might say that he gradually shriveled up
and ran down. The rumor, put about by a pert
housemaid, that he
had actually been dead for two days before anyone
noticed, is a complete exaggeration. I must admit, however, that he
might have passed away at any point during the five hours I spent with
him in his study on that particular afternoon. He was leaning back in
his big leather chair, meditating, as I assumed; and when, warned by
some premonition, I hurried to his side, his wide-open eyes held the
same expression
of mild inquiry with which they had always regarded me.
It seemed to me quite a respectable and comfortable way in which to
pass on.
It came as no surprise to anyone to discover that he had left his
property to me, the aforesaid prop, and the only one of his children
who had not an income of its own. My brothers accepted this tolerantly,
as they had accepted my devoted service to Papa. They did not explode
until they learned that the property was not a paltry sum, but a
fortune of half a million pounds. They had made a common mistake in
assuming that an absentminded scholar is necessarily a fool. My
father's disinclination to argue with
Mr. Hodgkins the butcher was due,
not to lack of ability, but to disinterest. He was very much interested
in investments, " 'change," and those other mysterious matters that
produce wealth. He had conducted his business affairs with the same
reticence that marked his habits in general; and he died, to the
surprise of all, a wealthy man.
When this fact became known, the explosion occurred. My eldest brother
James went so far as to threaten legal proceedings, on the basis of
unsound mind and undue influence. This ill-considered burst of temper,
which was characteristic of James, was easily stopped by Mr. Fletcher,
Papa's excellent solicitor. Other attempts ensued. I was visited by
streams of attentive nieces and nephews assuring me of their
devotion— which had been demonstrated, over the past years, by their
absence. Sisters-in-law invited me, in the most affectionate phrases,
to share their homes. I was warned in the strongest terms against
fortune hunters.
The warnings were not unselfish; they were, however, unnecessary. A
middle-aged spinster— for I was at that time thirty-two years of age,
and I scorned to disguise the fact— who has never received a proposal
of marriage must be a simpleton if she fails to recognize the sudden
acquisition of a fortune as a factor in her new popularity. I was not a
simpleton. I had always known myself to be plain.
The transparent attempts of my kin, and of various unemployed
gentlemen, to win my regard, aroused in me a grim amusement. I did not
put them off; quite the contrary, I encouraged them to visit, and
laughed up nry sleeve at their clumsy efforts. Then it occurred to me
that I was enjoying them too much. I was becoming cynical; and it was
this character development that made me decide to leave England—not, as
some malicious persons have intimated, a fear of being overborne. I had
always wanted to travel. Now,
I decided, I would see all the places
Father had studied— the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was
Rome; Babylon and hundred-gated Thebes.
Once I had made this decision, it did not take me long to prepare for
the journey. I made my arrangements with Mr. Fletcher, and received
from him a proposal of marriage which I refused with the same good
humor that had characterized the offer. At least he was honest.
"I thought it worth a try," he remarked calmly.
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," I agreed.
Mr. Fletcher studied me thoughtfully for a moment.
"Miss Amelia, may I ask— in my professional capacity now— whether you
have any inclinations toward matrimony?"
"None. I disapprove of matrimony as a matter of principle." Mr.
Fletcher's pepper-and-salt eyebrows lifted. I added, "For myself, that
is. I suppose it is well enough for some women; what else can the poor
things do? But why should any independent, intelligent female choose to
subject herself to the whims
and tyrannies of a husband? I assure you, I have
yet to meet a man as sensible as myself!"
"I can well believe that," said Mr. Fletcher. He hesitated for a
moment; I fancied I could see him struggle with the desire to make an
unprofessional statement. He lost the struggle.
"Why do you wear such frightful clothes?" he burst out. "If it is to
discourage suitors— "
"Really, Mr. Fletcher!" I exclaimed.
"I beg your pardon," said the lawyer, wiping his brow. "I cannot think
what came over me."
"Nor can I. As for my clothes, they suit the life I lead. The current
fashions are impractical for an active person. Skirts so tight one must
toddle like an infant, bodices boned so firmly it is impossible to draw
a deep breath ----- And bustles! Of
all the idiotic contrivances foisted upon helpless
womankind, the bustle is certainly the worst. I wear them, since
it is
impossible to have a gown made without them, but at least I can insist
on sensible dark fabrics and a minimum of ornament. What a fool I
should look in puffs and frills and crimson satin— or a gown trimmed
with dead birds, like one I saw!"
"And yet," said Mr. Fletcher, smiling, "I have always thought you would
look rather well in puffs and
frills and crimson satin."
The opportunity to lecture had restored my good humor. I returned his
smile, but I shook my head.
"Give it up, Mr. Fletcher. You cannot flatter me; I know the catalogue
of my faults too accurately. I am too tall, I am too lean in some
regions and too amply endowed in others. My nose is too large, my mouth
is too wide, and the shape of my chin is positively masculine. Sallow
complexions and jetty black hair
are not in fashion this season; and I
have been informed that eyes of so deep a gray, set under such
forbidding black brows, strike terror into the beholder even when they
are beaming with benevolence— which my eyes seldom do. Now, I think I
have dealt with that subject. Shall we turn
to business?"
At Fletcher's suggestion I made my will. I had no intention of dying
for a good many years, but I realized the hazards of travel in such
unhealthy regions as I proposed to visit. I left my entire fortune to
the British Museum, where Papa had spent so many happy hours. I felt
rather sentimental about it; Papa might just as well have passed on in
the Reading Room, and it would possibly have taken the attendants more
than two days to realize he was no longer breathing.
My last act before departing was to engage a companion. I did not do
this for the sake of propriety. Oppressed as my sex is in this
supposedly enlightened decade of 1880, a woman of my age and station
in
life can travel abroad alone without offending any but the overly
prudish. I engaged a companion because— in short, because I was lonely.
All my life I had taken care of Papa. I needed someone, not to look
after me, but the reverse. Miss Pritchett was a perfect companion. She
was a few years my senior, but one never would have supposed it from
her dress and manner. She affected dainty frilled gowns of thin muslin
which hung awkwardly on her bony frame, and her voice was a
preposterous high-pitched squeal. She was clumsy; her stupidity was so
intense it verged on simplemindedness; she had a habit of fainting, or,
at least, of collapsing into a chair with her hand pressed to her
heart, whenever the slightest difficulty occurred. I looked forward to
my association with Miss Pritchett. Prodding her through the malodorous
streets of Cairo and the deserts of Palestine would provide my active
mind with the distraction it needed.
After all, Miss Pritchett failed me. People of that sort seldom fall
ill; they are too busy pretending to be ill. Yet no sooner had we
reached Rome than Miss Pritchett succumbed to the typhoid, like the
weak-minded female she was. Though she recovered, she delayed my
departure for Egypt for two weeks, and it was manifest that she would
not be able to keep
up with my pace until after a long convalescence. I therefore
dispatched her back to England in the care of a clergyman and his wife,
who were leaving Rome. Naturally I felt obliged to pay her salary until
she was able to secure another post. She left weeping, and trying, as
the carriage left, to kiss my hand.
She left a vacuum in my carefully laid plans, and she was the cause of
my ill humor when I left the hotel that fateful day. I was already two
weeks behind schedule, and all the accommodations had been arranged for
two persons. Should I try to find another companion, or resign myself
to solitary travel? I must make my decision soon, and I was musing
about it as I went for a final visit to the desolate Cow Pasture which
was the seat of the ancient Forum of Rome.
It was a brisk December afternoon; the sun was intermittently obscured
by clouds. Piero looked like a cold dog, despite the warm jacket I had
purchased for him. I do not feel the cold. The breezy day, with its
alternating shadow and sunshine, was quite appropriate to the scene.
Broken columns and fallen stones were obscured by tumbled masses of
weeds, now brown and brittle. There were other visitors rambling about.
I avoided them. After reading a few of the broken inscriptions, and
identifying, to my satisfaction, the spots where Caesar fell and where
the senators awaited the arrival of the Goths, I seated myself on a
fallen column.
Piero huddled at my feet with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped
around the basket he had been carrying. I found the hard, cold seat
comfortable enough; there is something to be said for a bustle, in
fact. It was compassion for Piero that made me order him to open the
basket the hotel kitchen had provided. However, he refused my offer of
hot tea with a pitiful look. I presume he would have accepted brandy.
I was drinking my tea when I noticed that there was a cluster of people
some distance away, who seemed to be gathered around an object that was
concealed from me by their bodies. I
sent Piero to see what it was, and went on drinking my tea.
After an interval he came bounding back with his black eyes gleaming.
Nothing delights these gentry quite so much as misfortune; I was
therefore not surprised when he reported that the "turisti" were
gathered around a young English lady who had fallen down dead upon the
ground. "How do you know that she is English?" I inquired. Piero did
not reply in words; he went through an extraordinary series of grimaces
to indicate a certainty so profound it requires no evidence. His eyes
rolled, his hands flew about, his shoulders rose and fell. What else
should the/lady be but English.
English or not, I doubted that the lady was dead. That was only Piero's
Latin love of the dramatic. But

BOOK: Crocodile on the Sandbank

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